Love of a SheikhI had been there for supplies. So had he. We unintentionally shared the same Moroccan night sky on many succeeding occasions; this night was no different. I smiled at him. I always smiled at him, and he always returned it.
"What do they call you by?" He asked me one evening, a tanned hand on the reins of his horse before he prepared to mount the animal and ride off.
"Most call me 'mademoiselle.' You may call me Leyla." He inclined his head in a bow and I did the same, never breaking eye contact with him, nor he with me even as he mounted the spirited Arabian horse. And then, with no grand spiel or gesture to his wealth and position in life, he asked me a seemingly simple question; as if inquiring whether I took a ship or train to come this way.
"My men and I have come to the city to obtain provisions for my people. I came also for a wife. We leave at dawn to return to my tribe where we dwell in the Sahel... Would you accompany me, Leyla?" At first I believed him to be playing a game, t